


A Warlock's Wish

by vividpast



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst and Humor, Gen, M/M, Magic-Users, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-05-30 07:37:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6414745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vividpast/pseuds/vividpast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the midst of capturing a magical creature, Merlin is transported in a world where Camelot is the home to thousands of magic users. It is King Uther’s life that is taken in exchange for Prince Arthur’s and Queen Ygraine sits on the throne. </p><p>Merlin plans to get back to his own reality, to his own Arthur. To do that, however, he must have access to magical books, which are inside a shielded castle protected by hundreds of sorcerers. The only way in is to participate in the Apprentice Exam and be an apprentice to a magic-user included in Camelot’s court. Should be easy . . . right?</p><p>Conspiracies are afoot and Merlin just knows that, somehow, he is or will be involved. Just his luck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** *facepalms* I’ve left this fandom. I swear I’ve left this fandom for good. But like a rubber band, I keep snapping back to it. Damn you, Merlin! I’m trying to write for another king and his lionheart!
> 
> Anyway, this idea has been stewing in the back of my mind for at least 3 years. I’ve decided to write it so it will stop bothering me. Warning, as usual: it might not go past this chapter.
> 
> ANYONE IS FREE TO ADOPT THE IDEA (please, please do). This will be loosely based on The Magisterium Series by Holly Black and Cassandra Clare. I really like the ‘unexpectedly powerful apprentice cliché’.

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Loksni rearranges the vials on the booth, making sure they are aligned with one another. His sister will tease him about being nitpicky has she come with. As it is, Loksni can only hear her voice in his head. Loksni would argue that, being a potion-maker, precision is everything. Lest the customers grow hair in the strangest of places.

The cauldron on the corner of the table bubbles and pops, the mixture inside turning a liquid gold. Loksni turns and attends to it. A second more and it will be overcooked, thus, be rendered useless. _Drýcræftéaca_ has always been a popular potion at this time of the year, what with the Apprentice Exam just a few days away. Nervous and arrogant young sorcerers and mages will drink it in the hopes increasing their chances of success. Of course, the exam's officials always catch them and so, they get disqualified instead. The youth never learns. But business is business, Loksni supposes. If they are stupid enough to try and cheat the most prestigious event of the year, then he shall not hesitate to take advantage of them.

A shadow befalls the cloth-covered table of his stall. Loksni hurriedly mutters, " _Ácwincan_ " to extinguish the fires in the stove. He'll put the _drýcræftéaca_ in bottles later. For now, he has a customer.

He lifts his gaze and meets the frightened eyes of a dark-haired young man. Loksni frantically glances around for any kind of threat. After a moment of fright himself, he has found nothing but his potions and the glare of Brina two stalls to the left. (That confusing woman. He does not know what he has done to earn her continuous ire.)

He turns back to the pale young man. "Good morning, young sir," Loksni greets like a good merchant, a hint of wariness coloring his tone. After all, the young man is still looking at him as if he has done a terrible deed. "Is – Is there anything I can help you with?"

The young man, a servant going by his tattered clothes, opens and closes his mouth like a landed fish.

Loksni patiently waits, an idea niggling at him. Perhaps . . . the young man is a bit . . . touch in the head. Not that Loksni is judging. All sorts come to his store. In fact, he has a few mixtures that can remedy such afflictions, although not completely and certainly not permanently. Performing magic that involves the mind, no matter how well-intentioned, usually does not end well.

Finally, words come out from the servant. "Y-You used – You just used magic!" He exclaims. Then, he slaps a hand over his mouth, paling and trembling slightly. His eyes dart around the area so fast, Loksni fears they might pop out.

" . . . Yes?" Loksni is utterly bewildered. Maybe he is the first mage the young man has ever encountered? Thinking about it, the servant is probably new to the city, seeing as Loksni does not recognize him. "I am a mage, sir."

"Shh!" Loksni tries not to feel offended about being shushed. "You . . ." The young man lowers his voice. "You can't say or _do_ things like that. This is _Camelot."_

Loksni blinks, confusion only growing. His assumption of mental-affliction is sounding more feasible by the minute. "And what is wrong with doing magic in Camelot?"

The young man squawks, hands flailing. It is a comical sight and Loksni fights off a smile. "What's _wrong_ with – It's –" His blue eyes catch something and he halts mid-sentence. He turns his head, gaping.

Loksni follows his gaze. Young boys are playing enthusiastically with a dirty red ball. One waves his right arm in a sharp arc and the ball flies high above their heads. The other holds out a palm, steadying the toy in the air. Behind them, a few feet away, a young girl is weaving colors in the air; it is after all easier to remove the painting mistakes without a canvas. Two young men, both probably planning to take the exam, are whirling their hands to steal globs of water from the water well and mold them in the air. Both form perfect spheres. Loksni is impressed. No one young would have such mastery over the element of water.

The young man sucks in a sharp breath and Loksni's attention turns to him once more.

"What . . . What's happening?" The young man looks terribly puzzled and no little bit scared. "No one's getting arrested. They're all doing magic . . ."

"Getting arrested?" Despite himself, Loksni's voice rises in incredulity. "For doing magic?"

Anger sparks in his chest. There are always people who will be prejudiced against magic-users, he knows. There will always be an underlying fear of being taken advantage of by sorcerers and mages. But that can happen in any field with any kind of craft besides magic. Even so, there are some who is biased against the magical arts just because they themselves cannot hope to have the ability.

Loksni hopes he never gets to meet one of those people. Too late for that, it seems.

"If you are hoping to find a place such as that, good _sir_ ," Loksni could not help but spit out. "Then, Camelot should be the last place in your list. It has been the center and home of thousands of magic-users for many years and it shall be so for many more. Now, if you're just here to give insult, then I suggest going to another stall for your potions." Loksni starts to turn his back to him, barely containing his temper. The nerve! "Good day now!"

"No, no, wait, please," the servant pleads so earnestly that Loksni could not help but pause. "I didn't mean to offend. It's just –" The young man rubs the back of his neck, eyes lowered. "Back in my hometown, magic . . . is a bit of a taboo."

Loksni's brows shoot up. "It's forbidden?" The servant must have come from a truly far away kingdom. No kingdom with an association to Camelot has ever had any kind of law against harmless magic.

"Yes." The young man winces.

Loksni's anger diminishes. Such a poor lifestyle this servant has led, one without magic in the midst. He could barely imagine it.

The man looks contemplative for a few moments.

"I – I know this might sound like a strange question but . . . what year is it?"

Loksni blinks. Perhaps not mentally-afflicted but merely losing memories. He has a potion for that too. "It is the twenty-fifth year of Queen Ygraine's reign," he replies slowly.

The young man blanches even more. Loksni, for one moment, thinks he is going to pass out. But the moment passes and the young man stutters out, "Queen Y-Ygraine?"

Then, the young surges forward, palms slapping the table. Some of the vials rattle and Loksni's display turns into a bit of a disarray. He casts an irritated glance at the cause.

"What about A—King Arthur? Blond-hair, blue eyes, bit of a prat –"

"Yes, yes, I know what Prince Arthur looks like," Loksni cuts off, rearranging the bottles once more. "And it's _Prince_ , not King. I should hope the queen lives decades more before her heir takes the throne."

The young man gapes unbecomingly. Loksni sighs. "Is there anything more? I'm afraid I have a store to run, sir," he says just a shy disrespectful.

"Ah, yes. T-Thank you." The young man bows, smiling a strained smile.

Then, he goes on his way, stumbling like a newborn foal and looking around in awe and fear. Loksni shakes his head.

He should have given the young man a free dose of _hygesorh_. It is the least he could do for the community.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** Hope the potions names are self-explanatory. You can PM me for any clarifications ^_^
> 
> Have a stress-free day!  
> ~ Vividpast


	2. Did you rub my lamp?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A creature . . . that grants wishes?” Arthur says slowly, looking as incredulous as Merlin feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning/s:** Brief gruesome imagery

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When the village woman comes to seek an audience with the king about a magical creature, Merlin does not expect it to be anything but disastrous.

Looking back on it, he is right in a way.

"A creature . . . that grants wishes?" Arthur says slowly, looking as incredulous as Merlin feels. They exchange meaningful glances.

 _'Well?'_ the king's rapid blink asks.

Merlin's brows furrow. _'I've never heard of such a creature before.'_

Arthur rolls his eyes. _'Of course you haven't. Why am I asking an idiot like you?'_

Merlin scowls.

Both turn their attention back to the village woman.

"Yes." There are bags underneath the woman's eyes, lips dry and face wrinkled. She hesitates before saying, "We – We were joyful, at first, Sire. The Djinn, for that is what he calls himself, seemed like a blessing from the gods. We asked for a bountiful harvest and the next day, the fields were painted gold with fully grown wheats. The leader's son fell ill and we wished for him to heal, and he did. Someone took advantage of the miller's daughter and we sought justice. The Djinn gave us the culprit."

"But?" Arthur cuts in. "I see why you would have thought this . . . Djinn has good intentions. But you must never trust anything that uses magic."

Merlin, through the years of practice, successfully suppresses a flinch. His eyelids flutter close for one painful moment. He wishes he can truthfully say that he's used to it. Every accusation, every proclamation of the evilness of magic, especially coming from Arthur, is like a dagger between his ribs.

"F-Forgive us, Y-Your Highness –" The woman starts paling.

Arthur makes a gesture and the woman falls silent. "I will not fault you or your village for being fooled. You only thought what was best for the town," the king says, a hint of pity in his tone. "What has he done that clued you to his malignant intentions?" Arthur asks.

The woman wrings her hands. "People have gone missing, Sire. People who have last been seen talking to the Djinn."

"How many?" The king's expression darkens.

"Eleven, Sire. Five are merely teenagers." The woman barely contains a sob. "One of them is my boy."

Merlin's chest aches, sympathetic to the mother's plight. He wonders how anyone, sorcerer or no, could do anything that would put such grief on a person's face. Do they like the torment they see upon their features? Do they feel better after such acts?

The warlock hopes he will never find out.

Arthur looks thoughtful for several seconds. His eyes roam the throne room, straying to the murmuring noblemen and councilors. The village woman stands nervously in the middle of them all.

"We should go and help them, Sire," a councilor, a gray-haired oily old man, suggests. "If this is truly a magical threat, then we should dispose of the creature immediately."

The others declare their assent.

"Or maybe we should imprison this Djinn, interrogate him," another voices out.

Arthur's eyes narrow. _Uh-oh. That doesn't look good_ , Merlin thinks.

"Hmm, yes, yes. I believe that would be better! He – He might be hiding some other magic friends of his."

"There are cuffs in the vaults that can bind a sorcerer's magic."

Merlin pales. Cuffs that bind magic? In the vaults? This is the first he has heard of such. He fights off a shudder. If Arthur finds out, if he is captured, put to trial . . .

"Silence," Arthur calls firmly. The noblemen cease their babbling and Merlin breaks out of his morbid musings.

The king has come to a decision, Merlin belatedly realizes. The servant sees it in the set of his shoulders and purse of his lips.

Arthur adopts an apologetic look as he addresses the village woman once more. "Milda, I am truly sorry but I cannot spare my knights for this."

The woman stares in shock and despair. "S-Sire."

Merlin's eyes widen in disbelief. What is Arthur thinking? It isn't like him at all to refuse to provide help, especially to one in desperate need of it! The king, this same king, had followed Merlin to Ealdor to defend a town that isn't even his. This is the same man who had helped a druid child escape from his father's clutches even though it went against his very belief. This is the man who went on a quest to save a mere servant's life!

How – Why? Merlin wants to shake Arthur until he makes sense again.

Shouts of protests start from the councilors, demanding that Arthur explains himself.

Arthur stares coolly at them until they get the hint and stay silent. Then, the king complies. "A creature that can grant any wish is unheard of. Even our Court Physician who is an expert on such things cannot confirm it."

All turn to Gaius at that. The old man shoot Arthur a discrete questioning look (which Merlin catches and causes him to even be more puzzled) before clearing his throat. "Yes, I've never read of a Djinn or anything that can grant wishes in any of my books."

The councilors frown and whisper. "Are you sure, Gaius?"

The physician nods sagely. "Quite sure, I'm afraid. No such thing could exist."

The murmurs ascends. The features of some of the councilors twist in rage as they turn to the village woman.

"You are a liar, then," he accuses.

The woman blanches. "N-No, please, S-Sire, you have to believe me." Tears run down her cheeks, sorrow painting her posture.

Arthur merely shakes his head. "I'm sorry." Then, he stands up, straightening his jacket and tunic. "I believe that is all the time that we have for today. Court dismissed!"

Merlin finds himself angry at the nonchalance of his tone. Why is Arthur acting like this? The poor woman, having traveled all the way to the castle, is breaking down and he acts like he could care less! Has he been enchanted? A candle lights up in Merlin's mind and with his epiphany, everything makes sense. Arthur's been enchanted (again). Merlin sighs inwardly. And as always, it is the servant who has to lift the spell.

However, as the noblemen are filing out and the village woman is on her knees, Arthur pulls Merlin to the side.

"Accompany Milda to my chambers," Arthur whispers, gloved hand on Merlin's nape. 'Take the servant routes and make sure no one sees you two."

"What? Why?" Merlin's exclamation is almost a shout and Arthur glares.

The kings cuffs him on the neck and Merlin grimaces. "Just do what I say, clotpole. Tell her I will hear her out there."

"But you've already heard her out," Merlin says, trying to make sense of Arthur's plans. "And you refused her!"

Arthur looks up, asking the gods for patience. "I swear, Merlin, if you don't stop questioning me, you'll be in dog-walking duty again."

Merlin squeaks. "Please don't."

"Then get to it!" The servant blinks slowly at the king. "Now! Preferably before she leaves and render all of this act useless," Arthur remarks so dryly that the desert seems moist.

"Right." Merlin scurries away and towards the woman sobbing in the middle of the room.

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"A-Are you sure?" Milda asks, voice hoarse from crying. She dabs the hanky Merlin lent her upon her puffy eyes. "He just – He said . . ."

Merlin smiles, grasping her elbow and leading her to a narrow hallway. "I'm sure, Milda. The king actually wants to hear you out. But he can't agree in front of his advisors."

The poor woman looks confused. "But why?"

That's Merlin's question too. However, thinking carefully about it, he now has some idea to why Arthur acted the way he did. Arthur wouldn't be so callous, Merlin knows. Whatever plan he has, it'll help Milda one way or another. "He'll explain later," the servant assures. "He acts like a prat at times but he's not cruel." And Merlin should have deduced Arthur's facade earlier.

Merlin glances left and right before they turn a corner, making sure no one else is in sight. They are nearing their destination.

Scandalized, Milda whispers, "Y-You just called the king –"

"A prat?" The servant grins. He turns and mockingly salutes the guard in front of the king's chambers. The guard shakes his head, smiling, and goes to unlock the door.

"Worse insults have come out of this idiot's mouth," Arthur remarks with a smirk, strutting towards them, cloak flaring dramatically behind him.

The guard stands to attention like a good little citizen. Milda yelps in surprise, eyes widening as they met the king's. She remembers herself and lowers her eyes and head. Merlin cocks an unimpressed brow, meeting Arthur's gaze head-on. Milda thinks with horror that the boy is going to get hanged for his insolence but Arthur merely rolls his eyes and gestures at his room.

"Get in, then."

The three of them enter. Merlin bolts the door and leads Milda to one of the dining chairs. Arthur removes his crown and cloak, putting them down on the first nearest place; really, Arthur could have at least put them on the table! But no, they go on top of a cabinet instead.

Merlin takes a seat beside Milda, giving her a comforting smile. The king sits on the chair across Milda's, pulling out his gloves. "I apologize for my earlier callousness, Milda, but it was necessary," he explains, looking properly apologetic.

Milda tries to hide her astonishment at a _king_ apologizing to her. "I – I'm sure you have your reasons, Your Highness."

Arthur nods, determined. "I do. You see, I believe you, I believe that this creature exists. But it would be folly to spread this information about."

A realization dawns on Merlin. "Someone who could grant any wish . . . If the wrong person finds out, they could take advantage." Not all wishes are for the good of the many. Merlin knows that first hand from Morgana, from Edwin, from Cornelius Sigan and from every other sorcerer that came to destroy Camelot.

"The walls have ears and news flies fast," Arthur steeples his fingers together, expression grim. Merlin thinks back to the advisors changing their minds about defeating the Djinn. Rather, they had wanted to imprison and _interrogate_ it.

Milda seems to be getting the hint. Dismay creeps in the lines of her face. "I d-didn't think, Sire. I should have known."

Arthur waves away the implied apology. "I will take my most trusted knights with me and hunt for this creature myself."

The village woman's relief shines in the unshed tears in her eyes. "You'll help us? O-Oh, thank you, Sire! Thank you!"

Arthur smiles. "I will do whatever I can to give your people justice and protect them from this creature." Merlin notices how Arthur does not vow to find the missing people alive. They both know it is a promise he cannot keep.

"Tell us more about what we're going to be dealing with," Merlin prompts and settles in for the long haul.

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Before preparing for the journey ahead, Merlin goes to the physician's chambers. If there is anyone else with more information, it will be Gaius. And Merlin will like to be as informed as possible.

"A Djinn or a genie grants wishes," Gaius says, face solemn as he hands Merlin an open book. "There are surprisingly few accounts about it but the one thing they have in common is this: when a Djinn passes by, death and catastrophe follows."

Merlin sighs. He doesn't want to trivialize it, he really doesn't. The creatures he battled with in the past, however, went along the same lines. Death and catastrophe, famine and war, plague and darkness . . . Why can't it be rainbows and sweet pastries?

Merlin shakes the thought of food away from his mind because he's starting to get hungry. He skims the brief passage about Djinn. There is no portrait of the creature but Milda has given them a detailed description so Merlin will know the Djinn when it shows. "How do we deal with it? Not necessarily kill but maybe imprison?"

"It's already imprisoned," Gaius informs him, pointing at the part of the text where it is mentioned.

Merlin blinks. "What?"

The warlock then finds out the Djinn lives in a lamp – an oil lamp, no less. Can it turn itself into the size of rats that it can live somewhere as small as a lamp? Did someone _wish_ it to live in an oil lamp? Merlin dares not to ask these questions lest he be given that 'I am judging you but I'm too wise and old to voice it out' eyebrow look by Gaius.

"Milda didn't mention any lamps. She described the Djinn as an actual person, with a normal-sized body and all that. Can it get out of the lamp then?"

Gaius frowns, contemplating. "Maybe it has hidden its home then. The text says the Djinn cannot wander far from its lamp. Wherever the lamp goes, the Djinn follows."

"So . . ." A plan forms in Merlin's mind. "We find the lamp, we contain the Djinn and it doesn't hurt anyone else?"

"I suppose that would work." Gaius gives him an approving glance. "Just keep the lamp in a safe cold place. The Djinn is summoned when the lamp is rubbed and given warmth –"

"Rubbed? What?" Merlin boggles.

Gaius speaks over him. "Prevent that from happening and the Djinn would be contained inside its lamp."

"Sounds . . . suspiciously simple." As it always is at the start.

Gaius gives him a look. "Pray that it stays that way, my boy."

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All morning, Merlin packs the king's clothes, equipment, and food. Said food being plenty enough to feed seven people on a two-day trip. Merlin's arms are numbed from carrying all of them and of course, Arthur insists that Merlin has to do all the tasks all by himself. They cannot risk the other servants knowing the true purpose of their expedition. They cannot let the servants gossip. For all intents and purposes, the king is going on his monthly hunt, bringing his knights as protection and Merlin as the slave who does all the menial (but important) stuff.

But of course, Merlin cheats. And no, he does not use magic. By cheating, he means that he recruits Gwen. Gwen is all too happy to help, even though, technically, she is no longer a servant. Her brother is a knight and the king clearly favors her, maybe even planning to court her. Although, now that Merlin thinks about it, he rarely sees Arthur and Gwen together in the past weeks . . .

Still, that does not prevent Merlin from complaining at Arthur's back and to his face. Quite loudly and every hour. Arthur grins gleefully at the start but eventually, the insults and complaints start to grate on his ears. He cuffs Merlin over the head five times in the span of a day.

Milda had already went ahead to her village, hopeful of the king's help. She had sobbed in respite, taking both Arthur and Merlin in a tight embrace before she left. Arthur had awkwardly patted her back and Merlin had smoothly reciprocated her hug.

At last, after several hours, they are ready to follow her.

Lancelot expertly saddles his horse, tying the straps securely around the steed's belly. Merlin sidles beside him and helps.

"Do you think we could defeat it, this wish-granting being?" the knight asks, voice low and focus still on the saddle. "If it can grant _any_ wish, even one with the involvement of life and death, then it is extremely powerful. Maybe even more powerful than you."

"From Milda's stories, I say this Djinn isn't malicious at all," Merlin whispers, finally being able to confide to someone. "It has done nothing but _grant_ wishes. Milda says it doesn't seem to perform any magic unless it's for the fulfillment of a wish."

Milda did not speak of the Djinn's personality at all, no matter how Merlin probed, only of its deeds. The Djinn had no will of its own, only a slave to any wishers. Unless the wisher asks a question, it speaks only a few words: "What is it that you desire?" and "Your wish is my command." These are said as if a script in a play.

Lancelot's brows furrow in thought. "You think the Djinn is just an instrument? That someone wants these people gone?"

Merlin nods, finishing the straps with a flourish. "Yes." He turns to Lancelot. "I'm planning to talk to some of the villagers. If we can find out what or who these missing people have in common, then maybe we can find the culprit." Now, if only he could say this to Arthur in a way that doesn't sound like he's defending magic . . .

"And what of the Djinn?"

Merlin grimaces. "It's still too dangerous to let it walk about. We'll probably need to lock it up in the vaults." For Merlin, no fault lies with the Djinn. It's just doing what its nature is telling it to do, Merlin thinks, since it lacks the will to think for itself. The warlock does not want any bloodshed in this one, especially since it appears to be unnecessary.

Of course, if the Djinn becomes a threat to Arthur and the knights, Merlin did not hesitate before and he will not hesitate now. The warlock will do what needs to be done.

Lancelot, reading his thoughts, claps him on the back. "You're a good man, Merlin," he praises with wonder, looking at Merlin with fondness.

Merlin turns around to hide the pleased blush spreading to his cheeks. It isn't the first time Lancelot has said it and Merlin doubts it will be the last. The knight is the kind of man who sees good in any person and any situation. Still, Merlin could not help but be delighted and a bit ashamed. Part of him knows he does not deserve such compliment.

"I'm glad you think so, my Lord," he replies cheekily.

Lancelot chuckles and Merlin approaches Gwaine to help load the supplies on a mare.

Gwain grunts, lifting the heavy equipment from the ground and placing it on the horse's back. Merlin wraps a rope around bags, tightens it, and starts tying.

"So . . . a wish-granting sorcerer," Gwaine starts, grinning. "Think I could wish for an endless supply of ale before we defeat them?"

Merlin snorts. "You'll be drunk all the time and Arthur will probably strip your knighthood before winter starts."

"Ye of so little faith," Gwaine tuts. He checks the daggers on their sheaths, making sure they easily slide out in case of emergencies. "I think I can discipline myself, mate."

"Can you now?" Merlin is amused and shows it. He tightens the knots and ensures no bags are loose. "And tell me, how many times has Arthur forbidden you from going into the tavern?"

Gwaine frowns. He remembers the _unfair_ prohibitions and just because he came to training drunk _once_. Arthur never lets up. Well, in the queeness' defense, Gwaine had been so utterly intoxicated he nearly maimed poor Perceival. "Seven times," he answers.

"And how many of those did you follow instead of discretely sneaking inside The Rising Sun in disguise?" Merlin gives him a teasing smile because they both know the answer.

Gwaine stills. Then, he says, "I believe you have a point, Merlin."

"If you _girls_ are done chatting." Arthur's sarcastic drawl filters in their conversation. "Then, I believe we have a village to save and a sorcerer to catch."

"Don't we always?" Elyan mutters. Leon stifles a smile but Perceival has no such compunction.

"Haha." Arthur elegantly mounts his own professionally-tamed steed. "I'm sure if we peacefully talk to these evil magic-users, they'll respectfully cease their schemes so we could rest for a few weeks."

Merlin expertly ignores the sliver of pain that stabs his chest. Lancelot subtly shoots him a worried look and Merlin shakes his head in response. Instead of focusing on the king's words, the warlock deftly plucks an apple from their supplies. He has forgotten to eat breakfast and if Arthur plans to scold him for eating too early in their journey, he could do so in front of Merlin's apple-filled cheeks.

Arthur says nothing, however, just stares at Merlin with wide eyes like he could not believe such an insolent thing existed. Merlin grins then continues to chew as obnoxiously as he can.

"Oi, oi, mate. Stop making love to the apple. It's awkward for all of us," Gwaine pipes up.

Arthur throws his head back and laughs like a loon. The knights are not far behind. Merlin glares at Gwaine who gives him an unrepentant grin. It's probably revenge for the servant's teasing earlier.

Later, Merlin would finish the apple and throw the core at Gwaine who deserves no less. It would hit the knight right between the eyes and would startle another bout of laughter from their companions.

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In the end, they do not reach the village. They find the lamp a three-hour's ride away from it.

Well, they find Djinn. Or, more specifically, the Djinn finds them.

"What is it that you desire?" a monotonous voice says, echoing in the darkness of the night.

The reaction is instantaneous. Arthur and the knights pick up their weapons, the earlier cheer from the campfire vanishing without a trace. Merlin gets to his feet at the same time as the knights, readying his magic.

"Djinn," Arthur calls, sword pointed at the creature.

The Djinn is exactly how Milda described it.

Its cheeks are still puffed with the fading remnants of baby fat, looking no older than seventeen summers. Its eyes are bright periwinkle blues, flecks of silver glinting even in the dark. A mop of blue – _blue_ —hair sits atop a round beardless face, tanned skin turning golden in the light of the campfire. The lobes of its ears and the bottom of its lips are adorned with metal rings that pierced skin.

What is perhaps the weirdest are its clothes. A dark blue vest inadequately covers its torso, top and bottom two buttons undone to show off lean muscles and a bandaged chest. Loose white trousers, one that might be more fit for nightwear, hung around its skinny frame. The shoes are made of tanned leather, with the tips curling upwards like the curl of a jester's hat.

The Djinn stares unimpressed at them while they all brandish their swords. "What is it you desire?" it repeats.

"I desire your head on a platter," Arthur challenges, clearly not expecting anything.

"Your wish is my command," the Djinn answers in the same emotionless voice.

They all take a step back in horror when, in the blink of an eye, the Djinn disappears. In its place is a head with blue hair on a shining silver platter. The bottom edges of the head are bleeding red, bits of raw skin and muscle peeking underneath the circle of its neck. The flickering light of the fire emphasizes the sight in a more grisly manner.

The blue eyes look _bored_ of all things. The head opens its mouth and inquires, "What is it you desire?" Blood trickles down its mouth, splattering over and tainting the tray as it speaks.

"It's still alive?" Elyan blurts in shock, looking slightly sick.

"I desire that you return back to your previous form," Lancelot speaks, evidently perturbed to be talking to a detached head. By the lack of protest from the other knights, so are they.

"Your wish is my command."

Another blink and the Djinn's head attaches itself to a body. It stands in the exact same position it did before. The platter is gone and the Djinn appears hale.

Well, if the Djinn does not have a problem fulfilling Arthur's gruesome wish, maybe . . . "Djinn, I wish you to lead us to your lamp," Merlin says before Arthur gets the bright idea of trying to fight the creature.

Merlin has a strong feeling any physical attacks against it would be futile.

Arthur sends Merlin a surprise look. Merlin has told them all about the lamp and how important it is to the Djinn. Perhaps it is one wish the Djinn would refuse to fulfill.

"Your wish is my command." Apparently not as it turns on his heel and start walking, presumably in the direction of its most valuable possession. The servant gives the king a smug look.

Merlin resolutely goes to follow. Arthur grabs his arm before he could go another step.

"It may be leading us to a trap," the king warns.

Merlin resists the urge to roll his eyes. Arthur knows that the Djinn could do no such thing without anyone wishing it. "And we have five knights at our disposal." _And a powerful warlock_ , Merlin adds in his head. "I'm sure we can handle anything it throws us."

Arthur glances at his knights, silently asking for their opinion. They talk amongst themselves, quickly forming a plan. Merlin taps a foot on the ground, showing his impatience. He glances at the forest, hoping that the Djinn has not walked far.

It hasn't. It's leaning against a tree, arms crossed. Its eyes are studying its green-painted nails, removing the dirt under them.

"We cannot trust anything magical, Sire." Merlin hears Leon point out. Then, they lower their voices into whispers not even Merlin could hear.

The Djinn rolls its eyes as if Arthur and his knights are the most unreasonable beings it has ever encountered. It murmurs something under its breath, head bobbing mockingly. Merlin's eyes widen, staring at the evident display of emotion. The warlock made a mistake; the Djinn has a will and a personality of a tween to boot.

The Djinn sees Merlin gaping. It instantly straightens, adopting its previous nonchalant expression. But the damage has been done.

"Arthur," Merlin hisses. This knowledge has changed everything.

"Alright." The circle of knights loosens, signaling the end of their discussion. "Elyan and Perceival will stay here to guard our supplies. The rest, with me."

"Wait, Arthur –"

"What now, Merlin?" The king walks decisively towards the Djinn, followed by Gwaine, Leon, and Lancelot. Leon hands a lit torch to Merlin who accepts absentmindedly.

The Djinn starts trudging in the forest once more, movements graceful, feet barely making a dent on the soil.

Merlin jogs to catch up to Arthur. "The Djinn, it's – it has _feelings_." The king glances at him with incredulousness. "I saw! We, we need to be careful –"

" _Now_ , you believe we're going to be ambushed." Arthur adjust his grip on his sword, the corner of his lips tilted up. "Don't worry your little head over it, Merlin. We have a plan. It doesn't matter if the Djinn has . . . _feelings_."

Merlin believes said plan involves charging forward and hoping if they keep thrusting, they'll eventually stab the creature. He is not reassured. Lancelot shoots him a reassuring smile, and Gwaine, a cocky one. Merlin's mind is unchanged.

The warlock decides to keep an eye on things for now. His eyes burn the creature's back. One wrong move from the Djinn . . .

The Djinn has done nothing to earn Merlin's distrust so far. Actually, they still aren't sure if Djinn _is_ responsible for the disappearances. Although, with Merlin's experience with sorcerers in the past few years, he doubts that the Djinn is entirely uninvolved. The only proof they have is that . . . the Djinn uses magic and 'magic is the source of all evil'. Of course, this is one thought Merlin will not voice out for he might be accused of defending magic.

"Do you think it's a woman or a man?" Gwaine's inappropriate question disperses the tension in the air.

"I think you should shut up right now, Sir Gwaine." Arthur glowers. "This is not a time for jokes."

"It's not a joke," Gwaine insists, although he does only with Merlin within earshot.

It is a viable question, seeing as the Djinn's face is properly androgynous and its voice is low enough for a man's and high enough for a woman's. The bindings around its chest could either be hiding assets or just simply something that should go with the attire.

The servant grin despite himself. "Would you flirt with it if it's a woman?"

"Who says I won't even if it's otherwise?" Gwaine asks back, winking.

And _what._ The servant stares wide-eyed at the knight. Why is Merlin just finding out about this? Gwaine is one of his closest friend and he has known the knight for years. The servant opens his mouth to ask, to clarify or confirm, he knows not.

Then, the Djinn stops beside a tall tree with a large trunk. All of them freeze. The knight tighten their grip upon their swords. Merlin's eyes darts around, searching for any kind of threat.

The Djinn lifts its head and points up. Cautiously, the knights follow the direction of its gaze. Merlin keeps his stare fixed on the Djinn.

"That's high up." Leon states, surprised. "How did it even get up there?"

The answer comes from the Djinn, startling them all. They had thought the Djinn would not speak anything else. "A group of crows carried it up," it replies like it cannot care less.

"Are we even sure that's the lamp?" There's a hint of whine in Arthur's tone. Merlin so wants to point it out.

"It is glowing. And I can see the handle and the lip," Lancelot offers the same time the Djinn confirms, "It is."

Gwaine releases an impressed whistle. "Well, lads, who's going to be the one to fetch it?"

Merlin is so busy having a staring contest with the Djinn that he doesn't register the silence for several seconds. When he does, he whips his head around, scared that the knights and Arthur has gotten into trouble without him noticing.

What meets the servant are two apologetic smiles from Leon and Lancelot and two roguish grins from Arthur and Gwaine. It takes Merlin a moment to recall their previous discussion. Since Arthur and the others seems to be watching the Djinn now, he feels safe to look up.

The tree seems to go up miles and miles, branches thick and aplenty. The leaves are unseen in the dark and its top seems to disappear into the night sky. And, almost two stories high, a crow's nest is tucked on one of the branches. In it, Merlin spies a glint of gold, glowing in the moonlight as Lancelot mentioned.

He turns to the Djinn. "I desire that your lamp be here down on the ground."

The Djinn promptly respond, "I cannot grant any wish that involves my lamp."

Of course. Merlin glares at Djinn, wondering if it's lying so it could watch the servant suffer. The Djinn blankly stares back, giving away nothing.

"Well, at least we know it has a limitation," Leon remarks. "It couldn't grant all wishes."

Not that that helps Merlin now. He lets out groan. "Why me?"

"You're the servant," Arthur gleefully points out. "That's kind of why we pay you, Merlin," he mock-whispers.

Lancelot steps forward. "I could –"

Immediately, guilt assaults Merlin. Drat it, Lancelot. "No, no, I'll do it."

"—hold the torch for you," the knight finishes, sheepish.

Merlin quite petulantly hands the torch to Lancelot. He huffs, glancing up again. Then, for safety measure, he wishes, "Djinn, I desire for you to go back into your lamp."

The Djinn does so by _floating_ slowly upwards. When it is the height of the lamp, it blinks out of existence. The knights and Merlin openly gape for several seconds.

"Why'd you do that for?" Arthur demands, sounding irate. "Now we can't keep an eye on it."

Merlin assesses the tree, searching for any kind of handhold. "I didn't want you lot getting into trouble while I'm not here," he replies without missing a beat.

He grabs one of the lowest branches and hauls himself up. He has done this before in Ealdor and he will do it again. Climbing trees is easy, Merlin reassures himself.

He climbs on a higher branch and sits precariously on top of the thickest portion. He leans back too far and starts falling. Flailing his arms in helplessness, he yelps in panic. Arthur and the knights surge forward to try and catch him. Luckily, his floundering leads him into grasping a part of the trunk. He almost hugs the tree in relief. His descent halts and everyone breathes a sigh of relief.

"It seems you will be taking the trouble with you, mate," Gwaine says before letting out an exasperated exhale.

The servant sticks his tongue out in reply. Then, Merlin realizes he's an utter _moron_. "Djinn!"

Nothing happens for almost a minute. Arthur and the knights shoots Merlin confusing glances.

Then, the Djinn pops out next to Merlin with a thunderous crack, making everyone jump. Arthur and the knights instinctively raise their weapons. Merlin starts falling _again_ and by the gods, this is going to hurt.

Then, the Djinn's arm shoots out and grabs a fistful of the servant's shirt. Merlin gets pulled none-too-gently back to his balanced sitting position. A flash of amusement flitters over the Djinn's face before a blank mask falls over his expression once more.

"Oh, that's funny, is it?" Merlin's heartbeat still pounds too loudly in his ears. "I could've broken my neck!" Well, his magic will probably save him. But Arthur is right there and his life will be extended for only a few more days.

Arthur rolls his eyes, lowering his sword. "No one's laughing, Merlin." The king glares at the cause of their alarm.

"I wasn't talking to you!" Merlin shouts. He turns to Djinn who sits casually upon the branch, the wood not even creaking with the weight of two person on it. "Um, thanks," Merlin grudgingly says because the Djinn did just save him even though it was the cause of everything.

The Djinn blinks and asks, "What is it you desire?"

"Oh, right. I wish that I'm sitting on the branch where the crow's nest is. Safely, that is," Merlin adds before the Djinn could get any ideas. He speaks loud enough for the others below to hear. It will not do for them to worry.

The Djinn nods. "Your wish is my command."

Merlin finds himself higher up in the tree the next instant. The wind blows cold and hard at this height. He shivers, wrapping his jacket tighter over his form. The Djinn is nowhere to be found and Merlin hopes it just went back inside the lamp. It's hard to protect Arthur when the warlock is two stories above ground.

Merlin looks down and gulps. Arthur and the knights are not really that far away but the light of the lone torch makes it seem like they are. Everywhere else is a pit darkness.

The servant faces forward, deciding to focus on his mission. An arm's length away is the nest, although the lamp is not the only one cradled in its depths. Five featherless chicks and their mother sleep, snuggling against the golden light the lamp is emitting.

Ah. Warmth. They're probably why the Djinn is being continuously summoned.

The oil lamp itself does not look like a normal lamp. Made of gold and encrusted with rubies and sapphires, it certainly looks expensive. Merlin carefully extracts the chicks from it, making sure not to wake them.

The servant runs his fingers over the jewel adornments, feeling hum of magic vibrating beneath his hands. The oil lamp is light and, when Merlin opens the lid, it is empty of anything.

"How does a Djinn live here?" Merlin asks himself, awfully curious. There is _nothing_ inside, not even a speck of dust. "Damn, I really want to know."

He tilts the lamp sideways and upwards. The warlock sees no runes that could be the cause of any spellwork. On the other hand, Merlin knows little of magical runes to recognize them. He will have to consult Gaius.

"Stop dawdling, Merlin!" The servant hears the king shouts. "Come back down!"

Merlin rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to give a sarcastic remark. But the ingenuity of his reply will never be discovered because Arthur's bellow has woken the chicks' mother.

And she is not amused at the human who is too close to her nest.

The crow squawks, wings fluttering. The chicks cry in alarm. Merlin turns back to the nest in surprise. He turns back just in time to see an angry beak coming right for his eyes.

Merlin shields his face in time and his arms bear the brunt of the attack. The bird pecks unmercifully at his clothes and any skin she could reach.

"Gah! No, wait, I'm sorry!" Merlin tries to reason with the crow. He wiggles away from his attacker, unmindful of his precarious position. All that matters is getting away.

It does not take long for him to lose his balance for the third time that night.

"Merlin!" The knights scream.

The warlock panics and desperately calls on his magic. Merlin smells lightning in the air, tickling his nose. Before he could utter a spell, however, a hazy feeling settles over him, stealing his thoughts and reason. Blacks spots dances over his vision and everything seems to be getting bigger and farther. His skin feels nothing, not even the air sharply whistling around him, and then, his hearing goes out too.

A saccharine fragrance explodes in the air and that is the last thing he registers before darkness takes him.

"Really? Out of all . . ." A sigh echoes in the void. "Your wish is my command."

Merlin falls but never reaches the ground.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**  
>  So, what to expect from this story:  
> This will be very fantastical. Yes, lots of magic and magical realism. This is mainly Merlin-centric.  
> On the issue of pairing, I’ve decided to go with Merlin/Arthur BUT this is will be extremely slowburn and you will not see even hints of it in the next several chapters. Nonetheless, this will contain a lot of bromance and will only be slightly slashier than in the show.
> 
> Kindly point out any glaring errors. Constructive criticisms are always welcome.
> 
> Have an awesome day!  
> ~ Vividpast


	3. Itty Bitty Living Space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Any question addressed to me or any question that addresses no one specifically, I’m compelled to answer. The keywords are: ‘wish’, ‘hope’, ‘desire’, ‘want’, ‘need’ or any synonymous words. Whatever they follow, I fulfill.”

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The bed beneath Merlin is definitely made of clouds, the warlock thinks with contented sigh. Even the softest hay could not compare. He runs his hands over the fabric of the sheets; they’re not quite silk but they are fluffy and soft. He snuggles deeper into the pillows, breathing in its fragrant smell. Gods, the cushions emitted the scent of sweet buns and sugary treats.

Has he fallen asleep on Arthur’s bed again? He hopes the prat takes his time in the Council. Merlin’s tiredness if Arthur’s fault anyway; how could he expect one servant to finish chores that would take two? That Merlin oftentimes uses magic to do them is beside the point.

“I would appreciate it if you stop molesting my bed,” a voice tears Merlin out of his musings.

Merlin’s eyes fly open in alarm. That isn’t Arthur. He thrashes, preparing his magic to protect himself from the intruder because who else would be at the king’s chamber? Unfortunately, the covers tangles over one of Merlin’s arms and legs, cutting any attempt to get up short. Instead, his body rolls over and right out of said bed. He lands on the carpeted floor, the impact stealing the breath in his lungs.

The voice lets out a shrill boisterous laugh. “Oh my god, dude, are you always this clumsy?”

Merlin roughly untangles the sheets from himself and quickly gets to his feet. The owner of the voice, is, of course, the Djinn. However, gone is its emotionless façade, replaced by untethered amusement at Merlin’s ungainliness. Its eyes creases in mirth, perfectly white teeth showing.

The warlock forgets to feel offended in the face of such drastic change. “You _do_ have emotions.”

At that, the Djinn immediately sobers up. It straightens, smile fading from its face as it rolls its eyes. “Yes, just like any sentient being.”

“But before, you pretended to be . . . to have no will,” Merlin points out.

The Djinn scratches its cheek. “I find that people are more unlikely to take advantage if they think I simply don’t care.”

“Take advantage? Isn’t that . . . “ Merlin trails off as his gaze strays away from the Djinn and takes in the rest of the room. His jaw drops open. “Where have you brought me?”

The Djinn snorts. ”The real question is: where have you brought yourself?” It looks around, a small smile upon its lips. “Welcome to my humble abode.” It makes a sweeping gesture at everything.

If there is one thing to describe the place, however, it will not be ‘humble’. The walls are made of solid gold, shining to an impossible degree. Various knickknacks fills the spacious room, most of which Merlin fail to recognize or fail to make sense of. An almost flat rectangular article is glued to the wall, looking to be made of black glass. Flags the color of rainbows hangs in the ceiling. A high shelf bursting with books takes up one of the four walls of the chambers. A large bed, which Merlin had previously been lying on, has been painted with designs of stars of the night. The colors are vivid and the designs detailed, if not a little bit weird. Everything else, Merlin couldn’t even begin to describe.

Two more doors lead to two more rooms but they’re closed so Merlin couldn’t begin to know what they contain.

“You live here?” Merlin looks at everything with wonder.

“This is my room,” the Djinn says dryly. It sighs then. “I suppose I’ll have to give you the grand tour.”

Realization hit Merlin like a ton of the castle’s bricks. “Are we . . . Am I inside the lamp?” His voice grows a pitch higher at the end. He looks back down on himself. Did he become small? Then, a more urgent thought niggles at him. “What about the others? Arthur, Lancelot, Gwaine and Leon? Where are they?”

“You are inside my lamp as you have wished,” the Djinn drawls patronizingly. “Your friends are outside of it. Hence, they are not here. They’re still in the forest where we left them.”

Oh, good. Those troublemakers are safe. Then, Merlin frowns, catching on something. “But . . . I didn’t wish for anything.”

“’How does a Djinn live here?’” the Djinn repeats, making a mockery of Merlin’s accent. Merlin feels offended. “’Damn, I really want to know.’ Were those not your exact words?”

“That – That was considered a wish?”

“Any question addressed to me or any question that addresses no one specifically, I’m compelled to answer,” the Djinn replies, lifting its index finger. He raises another digit and starts counting off, “The keywords are: ‘wish’, ‘hope’, ‘desire’, ‘want’, ‘need’ or any synonymous words. Whatever they follow, I fulfill.”

“But.” The warlock frowns, recalling his previous experience and Milda’s stories. “You granted every wish almost instantaneously. That one took you minutes.”

“Time and space flow differently in here,” was the Djinn’s answer. “It takes a while for wishes to reach me when I’m inside the lamp. It’s sort of like a TARDIS.” At Merlin’s blank look, the Djinn elaborates, “You know, bigger on the inside, time-whimey thingy.”

The elaboration does not help the warlock at all. “Timey-whimey what?”

The Djinn nods. “If there’s one thing I don’t understand, it’s the mechanics of this whole ‘imprisoned in a lamp thing’.” It waves its hands in an all-encompassing motion. “It would be Victorian era when I go in but when I go back out, it’ll be the time of space explorations of new worlds and new civilizations, boldly going where no man has gone before.” The Djinn halts. “Wait, I think that one was a tv show.”

An ache starts on the spot between Merlin’s eyes. What is the Djinn talking about? “I hope you make sense sometime soon,” he mutters a bit snappishly.

“Your wish is my command.”

And the ache bursts into full-blown agony. Merlin gasps, images flashing before his mind like . . . like a _reel in a movie_. TARDIS, Time and Relative Dimension in Space. A blue phone box housing an alien creature with two hearts. It’s bigger on the inside because the space there is in another dimension, another world, another reality. It’s fiction, a play, a television show. A television, something that shows moving paintings with bright colors. It’s the black rectangular article in the Djinn’s room. The Victorian era has colorful gowns swinging about, propriety and inauthenticity ruling over the lives of the elite and peasants. No elbows on the table, eat gently and without a sound, dress as your status dictates. Dukes, lords, barons, servants, pianos, poetry books. Space. Spaceships, captains, first officers, red shirts, aliens, another play and –

New knowledge fills Merlin’s head, and so much, _too_ much, he can’t –

“Stop!” He cries out, irises burning with tears. “Please stop!” He grips his hair, almost pulling them out of their roots. “I wish it’ll stop.”

“Oh thank God,” a voice muffled by the nonsense in Merlin’s head says in relief. “Your wish is my command.”

Instantly, the assault ceases. Merlin’s knees buckle under him and he drops to the carpeted floor. The images fades away from behind his eyelids and so does much of the knowledge he gained. They don’t completely disappear and Merlin knows things people of his _time_ would think insane. Oh gods, Merlin has seen the very distant _future_. Or maybe it’s another reality, one so different from his own? Those television shows are certainly fond of such theories . . .

But his wish has been granted. The Djinn’s earlier words makes sense to him now; the space inside in the lamp is in a different dimension altogether and the time inside it is not linear, unlike the one outside of it.

The black spots disappears from his vision and Merlin finally has a good look of the room again.

It’s, well, quite different from before. The displays have been the toppled, the cabinets broken in halves, clothes strewn everywhere, the television cracked in several pieces and the bed flipped upside down. Merlin looks down on his hands and gulps. While he knows his magic tends to lash out with his emotions, he has never accidentally created a chaos of such caliber.

“Ah . . . a little help?”

Merlin’s head snaps up and he remembers that something is missing in the room. Namely, the Djinn itself.

“Where are you?” Merlin gets to his feet, eyes darting around.

“Up, up.”

Merlin cranes his head upwards and lets out a surprise gasp. The Djinn is pinned to the ceiling, irritation marring its features. It doesn’t seem to be the least bit bothered by the long pole piercing its abdomen.

Merlin lifts his hand and, with a gesture, pulls the pole out. The Djinn grunts but does not otherwise react. The warlock slowly lowers the Djinn to the ground and as soon as both of its feet are settled flatly on the floor, he immediately checks it over.

“You’re not bleeding,” Merlin blurts in wonder, staring at the hole on the Djinn’s middle. He watches as the wound seamlessly closes up and disappears like it never existed.

The Djinn shrugs. “I’m a Djinn,” it says as if that is explanation enough. Merlin makes a face. The servant finds a finger poking his chest the next moment. “And _you_. I told you ‘hope’ is one of my keywords. And what did you do?” The Djinn glances around, clearly upset. “You went ahead and wished and ruined my room!”

Merlin winces. “I’m sorry. I didn’t – It’s my magic –”

“I know it’s your bloody magic!” The Djinn shouts. “Do you even _líhtinge_? Are you one of those who are too proud to do it?”

“ _Líhtinge_ – what’s that?” Merlin perks up at the magical word.

The Djinn frowns, tirade halting. “It’s the regular release of magic, usually in the form of performing harmless tricks.”

Merlin blinks. “Why would someone do that?”

“So stuff like _this_.” The Djinn gestures empathically at the mess that is its chambers. “Doesn’t happen when they’re emotionally compromised or sick. How could you not know that?”

Merlin’s features alight with comprehension. “That’s interesting.” The warlock is about to ask more but then remembers he’s not exactly talking to a friend.

He backs away from the Djinn, eyes narrowing and arms lifting in preparation to use his magic. The Djinn rolls its eyes like Merlin is being a petulant child.

“What now?”

“In the village not far from here – from your lamp, some people went missing,” Merlin says, gauging the other’s expression. But to Merlin’s consternation, the Djinn turns around. “You talked to them last, didn’t you?”

The Djinn observes the rainbow-colored flags on the floor, lips pursed in a thin line. “Probably.” It bends down and picks up the colorful cloths with their respective poles.

“What did you do with them?” Merlin demands, the threat in his tone clear.

“What I always do,” the Djinn replies casually, rearranging the flag displays on a broken nightstand. “Grant their wishes.” The Djinn nods to itself and moves on to clear the scattered clothes on the floor.

“And their wish was to disappear?” Merlin’s incredulous tone and raised brow speak of his disbelief.

“Their wish was impossible in this world.” The pile of shirts in the Djinn’s arms is getting bigger. Merlin couldn’t even see the Djinn’s face anymore. “So I sent them to another reality where they can have what they want.”

This time, Merlin’s other brow joins the other in his hairline. “What –“ The Djinn stuffs the clothes inside the splintered drawer, not even bothering to fold them. “Oh, for the love – Would you pay attention? I wish your room was fixed and everything was back on its proper place!”

The Djinn blinks at him in surprise. “Your wish is my command.”

Merlin blinks and the chambers is back to its previous pristine state. Not an article out of place, not a debris on the floor.

The Djinn twirls around, glancing at everything. It whistles. “Wow, thanks for that.”

“Now, will you pay attention?” Merlin sighs. “What do you mean you sent them to another world?”

The Djinn rocks on its heels, face a portrait of innocence. “There are some things that are beyond my power. I can’t bend another’s will, bring someone back from the dead, or change something that has happened in the past,” The Djinn ticks off. “However, I can transport them to a world where, hmm, their crush loves them back, their dad is alive, or they didn’t do that one embarrassing thing that labeled them as losers.”

Merlin processes that for several seconds. “Like . . . multiverse?” He massages his throbbing temples. He remembers such a concept during his episode earlier.

“Exactly.” The Djinn beams. “Parallel universes and such.”

“And that’s where all those villagers went? In other worlds?”

“Yup,” the Djinn replies, popping the ‘p’.

“Can I wish them back?” Merlin’s mind flashes to Milda’s grief-stricken face. She will be more than happy to have her son back.

“Sure.” The Djinn shrugs. “Recent wishes override previous ones.”

Merlin smiles in relief. This will be solved without bloodshed after all. “I –“

Suddenly, the ground beneath their feet shakes and the air warms. Merlin grapples with the bed’s headboard for support. The Djinn stays miraculously balanced until the tremors stop.

“Be right back.” The Djinn winks. Then, in a more serious tone, it warns, “Don’t touch anything.”

And it disappears before Merlin could utter a reply.

“What –“ Merlin looks around but the Djinn truly has gone.

What in the world is that? It left without a single explanation! Merlin is miffed. He resists the urge to do the opposite of what the Djinn wants and touch each and every paraphernalia in the room.

As if reading his mind, the Djinn appears right in front of him the next moment. Merlin takes an instinctive step back from it, yelping in surprise.

The Djinn looks a little like it has been run over by a wheelbarrow. It stares at Merlin as if the warlock has done the impossible. Merlin instantly notices the major differences on the Djinn’s appearance; the ear cuffs and the piercing upon its lower lip are gone, replaced by smooth unblemished skin. Their absence makes the Djinn look vulnerably younger.

“Are you alright?” Merlin cannot help but ask in concern. “What happened?”

“I’m . . . I’m free,” The Djinn whispers, voice breaking. When it looks up to Merlin, its eyes are glimmering and a smile threatens break its face in half. “And so are you.” It reaches out and taps an index finger upon the warlock’s nose.

Merlin sneezes. “What are you –“

A weird sensation grips him, one not unlike falling from a great height. Something pulls at his chest, not unpleasant but not overly comfortable either. His vision fills with blinding white, the Djinn’s smile and the Djinn itself fading from sight. Indiscernible voices uttering nonsensical words reverberate around his ears.

_“. . . use_ _Drýcræftéaca . . .”_

_“Water, fire, air, earth . . .”_

_“. . . father dropped me . . .”_

_“You must protect . . .”_

_“. . . Did you just call me a prat?”_

_“. . . library is forbidden . . .”_

_“Concentrate, boy! Magic is not . . .”_

_“How did you . . . It takes a lot of training to . . .”_

_“Come on! Join us! I mean, we want to kill the Pendragons but . . .”_

_“You resemble your mentor greatly. One would mistake . . .”_

_“You think I will not smell a traitor right under . . .”_

_“ . . . scry for the cause . . .”_

_“It wasn’t me! I didn’t – I would never . . .”_

_“If you want to save your king, then, you’ll bloody . . .”_

_“Stay. Please.”_

He gasps but the sound he makes gets lost in the void. His hands – where are his hands, his feet, his whole body? He could not feel them.

_“I want him to be safe.”_

When Merlin comes to, he finds himself standing in the middle of the forest, the sun high up in the sky. He groggily gazes around, eyes squinted against the sudden bright environment.

There are no Djinns or knights in sight.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**  
>  This was supposed to contain a grand tour of the Djinn’s house and some Merlin/Djinn bonding moments. But rereading that, I realized it’s not really necessary so I removed those parts and shortened it to this ^_^.  
> Kindly point out any glaring errors. Constructive criticisms are always welcome.  
> Have an awesome day!  
> ~ Vividpast


	4. A Whole New World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin tries to make sense of everything.

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The air in his lungs vanishes as if sucked out by an oncoming storm. His heart lets out a throbbing and loud beat, and something in his ears pops. The smell of lightning and burning wood sting his nose. Before he could react to any of these sensations, a wave of agony assaults his temples like a thousand needles stabbing his skull. He ceases walking.

"W-What?" His normally aloof composure cracks, and he holds his head in pain. The black leather mask stuck to his face like a second skin, thankfully, does not budge or fall. His covered face has always been his first worry.

"Wracu?" A concerned voice waddles through the noise in his ears, a hand grasping his shoulder. "What on earth is the matter?"

"I-I-I d-don't." The amount of times Wracu stuttered in his life, he could count with one hand. The fact that he does now denotes a situation that is likely life and death.

His companion knows this and panics appropriately. "Wracu? What's happening?" Smooth slim fingers caress his face, unnatural warmth emanating from the points of contact. "Speak to me, child."

The ache in Wracu's head intensifies instead of diminishing, which, he knows, was not her intention. Nevertheless, it is the result.

He wrenches himself out of her grasp, gasping. "Do you not feel it?" Wracu spits out, irritated that she doesn't understand. For a moment, he fears the consequences of using that kind of tone when talking to her. But the throbbing in his head takes any fright away.

"What is it? What are you sensing?"

Power.

Magic so concentrated in a very small vessel.

An abomination that never should have come into existence.

Wracu can almost taste the coy sweetness quality to the undiluted power, forbidden and seducing.

Wracu has always been in tuned with the Old Religion, sensitive to any changes that might tip the already delicate balance in their environment. Sometimes, he even hears soft whispers of the ancients, persuading, tempting, pleading. He has always seen it as a gift. Now, suffering through the enormous pain of the Old Religion crying out, he isn't so sure.

Indeed, what is it? A magical artifact that an arrogant sorcerer seek to create and control? A _drýlic_ creature that has just been born into the world?

 _Merlin,_ cries helpless and distant voices.

Wracu straightens abruptly from the crouch he had not realized he was in. The agony in his skull recedes abruptly, and relief blossoms in his chest even though he is utterly confused.

 _Merlin,_ echoes once again. Wracu does not have the pain to distract him this time. He stills, mouth parting.

 _Merlin_ , the voices insists, desperate. _Emrys._

"Wracu!" He is shaken, both literally and figuratively, out of his trance. Nails dig into the flesh of his arms, and he fights off a wince.

"I'm sorry, Mother, for worrying you," he says calmly. He slowly gathers his composure, putting up the cold persona he usually adopts.

"Was that an attack? Did someone try to hex you?" A cold hand cups his jaw and Wracu leans into the touch.

"No, nothing of the sort," he reassures.

He thinks for a moment, trying to make sense of the happenings in the past few minutes.

He does not know what kind of monster has caused the Old Religion to cry for help, from Wracu, no less. He will have to scry to find out more. But there is one thing he is sure of, one thing he knows his companion will be pleased to hear.

He allows his lips to curl into a smirk. "I believe I have found something that can be of use to us."

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"Arthur! You supercilious prat!"

Merlin has been wandering the forest for _hours_. He calls for the knights and for Arthur. No one answers, of course, else he will not be in the forest anymore.

This forest, the forest the Djinn has sent him to, feels . . . odd. If asked, Merlin cannot pinpoint exactly _why_. The trees seem more . . . alive? Their leaves are a more vibrant green, their branches a deeper brown than Merlin is used to. The air is lighter too; Merlin feels like he has been inhaling smoke all his life, and is finally tasting unpolluted air. The soil, the plants, the clouds, the sky . . . everything is teeming with unadulterated life, and Merlin feels the energy sinking in his very bones. Everything seems more . . . just more. Have forests always been like this and Merlin is just always too busy (saving Arthur's arse) to appreciate it? He is wary but also strangely reluctant to leave it.

He sighs, dispelling the wandering thoughts. His throat is dry beyond belief and he has not the energy to call out one more time. Scrubbing his face, he lets out another tired sigh. Through the gaps of his fingers, he observes the endless trees once more, not really hoping to find anything familiar. After all, after that all debacle about being inside the lamp and the Djinn tapping his nose, it is clear that the sassy magical creature has transported the warlock somewhere very far away.

Except . . . Merlin straightens and whips around. The copse he is in does look familiar. It is one Arthur and he traverse in their usual hunting trips. Merlin remembers because _that_ particular protruding root always trips him up. He is sure that pine tree is actually out to get him. How can he trip on the same blasted spot every time? There must be some curse or sorcery involved. (He confides this to Gaius one time and never again because of the absolutely quelling look he received in return)

And if Merlin isn't mistaken . . . The servant runs west, growing increasingly giddy as his surroundings become more and more familiar.

At last, he reaches the dirt path that will lead straight to Camelot's gates.

He barely contains a whoop of joy. That Djinn has transported him near Camelot! Though he doesn't know why, he figures some deity up there must love him.

Without another thought, Merlin sets out for Camelot. Arthur and the knights are probably near Milda's village, panicking because of his sudden disappearance. Merlin will never be able to track them down and reach them on foot. He needs supplies and a horse. Maybe he'll even take a few knights.

On second thought, maybe they are on their way back to Camelot. Or maybe they are already in Camelot. It had been early evening when they discovered the Djinn. Merlin glances up and calculates; it's nearing midday. The Djinn did say time works differently inside the lamp, and what might seem like minutes for Merlin might be hours outside the lamp. Merlin hopes he is gone for only a day or two. Arthur will throw a fit if he disappears for more than that. He might send out search parties _again_ to look for a mere servant. Merlin is not ungrateful, truly, but he finds it mortifying to be the cause of such a large fuss.

He walks silently and alone for half-an-hour, tripping on the small rocks once in awhile. He should reach Camelot in two hours if all goes well, and no trouble finds him. Hopefully, Arthur and the knights are waiting there and not killed off by the Djinn or some other magical creature.

His ears pick up horse hooves, the crunch of gravel, and the creaking of a turning wheel. He spins around, alarmed, and promptly gapes.

Passing him is perhaps the most lavish and ridiculous carriage he has ever seen. It looks remarkably like a large pumpkin, bright orange and rounded. Golden ribbons wrap around like vines in its circumference, lazy spiral designs adorning the door. Instead of wooden wheels, bronze tires gleam in the sunlight. The coachman, dressed in an equally extravagant and ostentatious attire, respectfully tips his hat to Merlin as he passes. The servant hurriedly bows in response and acknowledgement. He steps aside so he wouldn't be run over by the carriage.

Then, the door to the carriage opens without a creak, and a grinning girl, a few years younger than Merlin, pops out.

"Hey, peasant!" is the last thing the servant hears before he is pelted in the face by something wet and muddy.

Startled at the unexpected happenstance, Merlin jumps backwards. He, of course, loses his balance and finds himself on the hard cold ground.

Laughter echoes in his ears and Merlin looks up.

"Good one, Clar!" a boy's voice praises.

The girl titters. "What can you expect?" To Merlin, she sneers, "Don't taint the road with your poor presence, scum."

The door closes with an ungodly slam, and before Merlin knows it, the carriage is gone from sight.

What the hell? Merlin sits on the ground, shocked. Did that really happen? Did a couple of snobbish nobles just humiliated and degraded him?

He burns with anger and embarrassment. Those spoiled entitled brats! Oh, Arthur's going to hear about this! One of the things the king of Camelot can't stand is arrogant tweens who need to be knocked down a peg. (Merlin had once teased that it was because Arthur can't stand to be reminded of his previously brattish self. He got sent to the stocks after that.)

His eyes burn gold without him meaning to. A few feet away, a tree inexplicably explodes with a loud screech, shooting splinters everywhere. Merlin barely gets to safety, barely avoids the large chunks of wood headed his way.

He stares at the ragged stump, the only remains of the large oak tree that shattered because of his anger. He gulps. He doesn't know why his magic is out of control lately. But he must tighten his restraint over it if he wants his head between his shoulders. He curls his palms into a fist and takes a very deep breathe. Right. Restraint. Control.

He wipes away the substance on his face. His hands come away coated with sticky green mixture. He shudders, utterly repulsed. What the hell is this? It smells like rotten eggs and feels abnormally hot on his skin. He goes over the potions and mixtures he knows. None of them matches.

Ugh. He better wash it off just in case.

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Detouring to a stream does not delay Merlin as much as he thought. By late afternoon, he arrives at the entrance of the kingdom of Camelot. He sighs in relief as the drawbridge comes to view. Hmm, when did Arthur get new guards for the gate? Merlin does not recognize the men on the battlements nor the ones stationed at the entrance. Actually, the drawbridge is different too. There are no chains on its either sides; there is no way to lift the wooden plank should the enemies come knocking on their door. The metal grate over the arch is in place though, ready to slam down and trap any fugitives. It is a small comfort.

An ominous feeling settles over Merlin, dread pooling in his stomach. There's something very wrong here, his instincts scream at him. And because said instincts have saved him and Arthur from power-hungry sorcerers throughout the years, he opts to listen to them. He carefully backs away from the drawbridge, eyes narrowed.

People passes him by, unhesitatingly entering the city with either their wares and luggage. Some send him curious looks. They do not seem bothered by the same things he is. Which might be reasonable since Merlin recognizes _none_ of them. He has been living in Camelot for seven summers now; while he personally does not know many townspeople, he does know a lot of them by face.

Why are there an influx of newcomers? Why are the guards new? What happen to the drawbridge? What in the name of Camelot is going on?

A notion crosses Merlin's mind, one that makes him lightheaded. What if . . . What if he has been gone not mere hours or days but months, years, _decades_?

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Tirol of the village of Ludviche, guard stationed on the left side of the entrance, leaves his post. He casually approaches the other armed guard, keeping his face nonchalant.

"Bart, do you see him? Young man with a neckerchief?" he murmurs, eyes not on Bart of the village of Arendelle but on the merchants entering Camelot.

"Aye." Bart rubs his beard, eyes pointedly on the said young man. "Been standing there for a while, isn't he?"

Tirol elbows him and harshly whispers that he be a bit more subtle. Bart huffs but complies. He takes to observing the big spears bestowed upon them when they were assigned as guards. The spears are just for show, really. Apparently, people feel a lot more safer if the guards carry more obvious and more bigger weapons, never mind the practicality of it.

"He looks lost," Bart offers.

"He looks like he's scheming," Tirol counters, ever the pessimist.

Bart snorts but does not exactly disagree. The young man is staring at battlements and entrance with an intense expression, like he is planning how to make a run for it. While it appears his physical prowess is not something to write home about, his magical one might be a different story entirely. Bart pulls out an amber-colored _scinncræfte_ crystal, one as big as an eyeball.

A small _scinncræfte_ crystal is given to any senior guard, a guard who has been working in service for more than fifteen summers. Tirol is only in his fifth summer so it is up to Bart to check. While _scinncræfte_ crystals are more accurate when in contact with the sorcerer or mage, there are some non-obsidian ones which are perfect for long distance measuring.

Bart pins the crystal between his index finger and thumb. He aligns it over his right eye and through its translucency, casts a gaze at the young man - who has not moved an inch. The crystal glows faintly, barely changing color.

"Just enough magical ability to light a candle," Bart remarks, pocketing the crystal once more.

Tirol hums. "He can still cause mischief."

"If that is your reasoning, then we should be arresting every citizen of Camelot," Bart replies with fond exasperation. He then lifts his chin, and shouts, "You! Boy with the red neckerchief!"

The young man bristles, turning to Bart with wide alarmed eyes. Everything about him screams of tension. From a far, Bart does not know if the man plans to fight or run.

"Come here, boy!" Bart beckons him closer. Fight or flight, at least something would finally happen. Bart's becoming bored,

The young man hesitates, glancing at the drawbridge as if it would come to life and whack him in the head. A split second later, he steels himself and pads on the wood. He approaches the guards and gates with obvious trepidation.

"What are you doing?" Tirol hisses.

Bart shrugs. "Maybe he just needs help." For one so young, Tirol is awfully wary of strangers.

"G-Good afternoon, Sires," the young man greets with a small bow.

Oh, how polite. "Good afternoon! What's your name then?"

"M-Merlin."

"Well, Merlin." Tirol does not hide the suspicion in his voice. "What businesses have you in Camelot? You are not a merchant." The guard looks pointedly at his garment.

"Er, no. I'm a servant . . . In the castle, that is." The young man stares at them, watching for their reactions.

Bart reacts by cocking a brow. Tirol's eyes narrow as he asks, "Where's your castle talisman then?"

"My . . . castle talisman?"

"The castle's shielded. You need a talisman to enter it," Tirol replies curtly. "Where's yours?"

"Shielded?" The young man's voice rises in incredulity. "I-I don't - I don't understand - what?"

Bart frowns. That the castle of Camelot is protected is common knowledge to anyone in the city. This young man claims he works in the citadel, and yet he shows surprise at the fact. He exchanges a meaningful glance with Tirol, who is starting to get restless.

"Are you new in the city, Merlin?" Bart asks. "I've never seen you around before."

"Are _you_ new?" The young man blurts out.

Bart's brow rises to his hairline. "I've been a guard here for seventeen summers now."

Something akin to despair flashes in the young man's features. "But I've never seen you before," he whispers, and Bart does not think he meant for them to hear it.

Judging by Tirol's expression, the other guard is gearing for a full-on interrogation.

"Tirol, Bart!" a call comes from above. Both guards look up at the battlements where their supervisor is leaning down. "A message just came in. The Mercia kids are half-an-hour away."

Tirol mutters a curse and Bart grimaces. Aye, the prince and princess of Mercia. The incarnations of the Devil himself.

They are actually supposed to arrive early that morning. But because it's them, they probably got delayed for pranking the various travellers they come across with. The guards did not question their tardiness and are secretly glad for it. And now, it seems their luck has run its course.

Their supervisor matches their enthusiasm. "They want the usual welcome." The usual welcome being: having guards as their footstool, to wash their hideous carriage, to ride those untamed things they called horses as entertainments, and other inhumane things. The guards assigned to them previously describe it as torture they would not wish upon anyone.

Commiserating their bad luck, they fail to notice the young man with the neckerchief slipping away into the gates of Camelot.

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The dread in Merlin is now a heavy stone in his stomach. His heart is probably in the vicinity of his boots. Seventeen summers? Merlin has never encountered that guard before! He takes note of any changes in the guards' guild (one of them might be an assassin or someone equally troublesome). What's more, they don't recognize him or his name. Being a king's servant has earned him a bit of fame among the townspeople (There are ridiculous rumors about him and Arthur too but thankfully, Merlin remains blissfully ignorant). Those guards should have at least an inkling of who he is when he introduced himself. He swallows the lump in his throat.

So, it might be true then. Merlin might not be missing for mere days but decades. Where's Arthur now? Gwaine, Lancelot, Elyan, Leon, and Perceival? Gwen? Are they still alive or have they been killed by some tragedy Merlin could have prevented?

A stall catches Merlin's eye, dragging him out of his miserable thoughts. There is tall man manning it, arranging the colorful phials displayed on his table. The bright colors in the liquids inside the bottles and jars draws attention enough. But the cauldron bubbling on one corner is what Merlin focuses on.

Out of context, the merchant appears to be brewing something magical, what with the mixture turning different shades every few seconds. Furthermore, the fire underneath the cauldron is _green_. It is something that will definitely catch the sorcery-hating eyes of the populace. Merlin hurriedly approaches the stall, wanting to warn the merchant about the dangerous image he is displaying.

He doesn't expect to see magic being boldly performed in public.

When he observes the marketplace for the first time, he doesn't expect the sight of magic being used in every day chores or activities.

He doesn't expect to be scolded when he implied that magic is forbidden in Camelot.

He doesn't expect the name of Arthur's mother to be uttered when asked about the current year.

He certainly doesn't expect to find that Arthur Pendragon is a _prince_ once more.

He walks away from the _potion_ store, dazed, befuddled, and no little bit scared. He takes in the little children playing with a ball using _magic_ , and he could not process what his eyes are telling him.

Queen Ygraine . . . Had Merlin been transported to the past? No, no, Arthur's mother died when he was born. This Queen Ygraine has been reigning for 25 years, and Arthur has, according to the merchant, already been born. How old is Arthur than? And where is Uther? The queen only takes the mantle when the king is incapacitated or dead, and the heir has yet to come of age. If Ygraine's been queen for decades then, is Uther dead?

Merlin scratches his head, frowning as he tries to make sense of everything. How can Ygraine be alive? Has someone revived her?

_There are some things that are beyond my power. I can't bend another's will, bring someone back from the dead, or change something that has happened in the past._

The Djinn's words resounds in his mind. The Djinn cannot revive anyone nor change Ygraine's fate. And since that annoying creature was the one that brought him here, it means -

_However, I can transport them to a world where, hmm, their crush loves them back, their dad is alive, or they didn't do that one embarrassing thing that labeled them as losers._

Oh.

Realization kicks Merlin in the gut. He's not in the future nor in the past. His eyes widens, lips parting.

He is in another world, a very _different_ one from where he comes from. A world where magic is legal and used openly _in Camelot_. It isn't possible; jumping through one world to another in a snap? Surely that'll take a lot of time and power. Oh, who is he kidding? Merlin has encountered, done, and defeated many impossibilites. What's one more? The beginnings of hysteria claw at the corners of his mind, and he suddenly has a hard time breathing.

Because this is his luck, his epiphany is followed by a hard blow to the head. He finds himself face-down on the ground, quickly losing consciousness.

"Oh, _scite_."

"What happened?" Heavy footsteps shakes the ground, and gravel crunches under boots. Someone kneels and hovers beside him.

"It was Selia! She threw the ball and -"

"It's not my fault! He was standing too near! He should've . . ."

". . . hit a rock . . . a concussion? Do we . . ."

"I can . . . Here's . . "

Darkness pulls him under and Merlin knows no more.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started writing this story, I didn't realize I'll be introducing a lot of OCs!
> 
> Thank you all for your comments, bookmatks, follows and kudos! I just really need to get this story out of my mind and I didn't realize people will actually like it XD.
> 
> Constructive criticisms are veey much welcome! Kindly point out any glaring errors!
> 
> Hope something happens today that will make you laugh!
> 
> ~ Vividpast


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